


Rough Justice

by Eireann



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to 'Devil's Advocate'.</p><p>There is a rehabilitation programme in progress aboard Enterprise.  Unfortunately, it is being conducted in the strictest secrecy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Volley](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Volley).



> Star Trek and all its associated intellectual property belongs to Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.
> 
> Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I owe a debt of thanks as always.
> 
> Warning: this story contains a few instances of bad language, so if you are offended by this you may prefer not to read it.

“Right.  Guess we’re about finished here for the day.”

“Suits me, Boss.”  Rostov helped him fit the last panel back into place, and the two of them got back to their feet.  Both of them groaned as they straightened up, feeling the strain of so many hours spent hunched over the repairs.  And it wasn’t as though this was the last; they had another eight sections to do tomorrow, each with its multiple delicate junctions requiring checking.  After the battering the systems had taken, it made sense to physically examine each of the connectors individually as well as run numerous tests via the computer.  The crews on Beta and Gamma shifts had their own work set out, but this was a job Trip preferred to reserve for himself, however physically wearing it might be.

Sense, yes, but – jeez, it took some doing.

“Don’t think I’ll be along to Movie Night tonight,” said Mike, rubbing his back wearily.  “I’ll catch something to eat, write to Caroline and then hit the sack.”

“I can think of worse ways to spend an evenin’.”  Trip stretched, feeling the abused muscles between his shoulder blades almost solid with tension.  If truth be told, he wasn’t much in the mood for Movie Night himself.  Maybe he’d do better to do some stretching exercises in the gym, and loosen up a little before he headed off to catch something to eat on his own account. 

Not that he was feeling particularly hungry, he realized ruefully as the two of them said their good-nights and parted in the corridor.  This in itself was pretty remarkable – usually he had the appetite of an alligator.  Since his return to _Enterprise_ , however, he’d had trouble settling back into his old routine in more ways than one.

It was plain that the crew didn’t quite know how to respond to his return.  Sure, they were grateful for his having saved the ship from the spectacular disintegration that would have been the inevitable end of the intolerable pressure on the warp engine.  His old team had welcomed him joyfully, but the discovery that he was still one of _Columbia_ ’s staff had introduced a note of shock and discomfort that most had shown all too clearly; and after that, he was neither ‘flesh, fowl nor good red herring’, and most of them had fallen back on treating him like he had some terminal wasting disease and should be handled with special care.

It was hardly surprising that Kelby could hardly bring himself to utter two words without being spoken to first.  And even though Trip knew that his own skill with this warp engine was the product of five years of hands-on experience coupled with an innate instinct for his field of expertise that went way beyond anything that could be taught in a classroom, he couldn’t help but feel some anger that the acting Chief Engineer hadn’t even had the guts to _suggest_ trying the manual shut-down and restart.  True, technically it couldn’t be done in the time – but as he’d proved by doing it, it’s amazing what can be achieved when the alternative is to become part of a debris field strewn along your own flight path.

He sighed.  Maybe tomorrow he’d have a word with Kelby, try to put the guy in the picture.  But it wasn’t something he was looking forward to.  For some reason he’d never gotten along with his replacement particularly well; the guy was bright enough, but too hidebound, too conservative, too prone to thinking that if a thing had never been done before, it wasn’t even worth a try.  And right now he was sullen, displaying his resentment in any one of a dozen ways, each too small in itself to merit a rebuke.  Well, that was understandable, and Trip was prepared to extend him a certain amount of rope.  But if it carried on this way, the rope would have to be brought up with a damned sharp jerk.

He’d reached his cabin by this time, and shed his uniform in an untidy trail as he headed for the shower.  His mood should have been improving, with the evening free before him, but instead it seemed to be growing blacker.

All the signs pointed to another night’s poor sleep to come.  He grimaced at the thought as he slapped shower gel onto his chest and began to soap himself down.  After the work he’d put in today he should be sleeping like a baby, but he knew from bitter experience that things didn’t work out that way.  The days when he’d tumbled into his bunk and fallen into oblivion before his head hit the pillow seemed so far away from him now that it seemed they must have happened in another lifetime.

For no reason at all he found himself thinking about Charles, the Vissian cogenitor.  He, she, it … damn, there ought to be a word for a third gender in the English language! …. Well, _it,_ though _it_ seemed somehow insulting, reducing that trapped and desperate spirit to some kind of impersonal object, which was exactly what the Vissians had tried to do.  He found it easier to think of _her_ rather than _it_ , mainly because that sense of wonder, of discovery, of gratitude, was something he associated more readily with a woman.  The fine bones of the small face had added to the impression of femininity, as had the quick, birdlike movements and the poised nervousness as he’d shown her around _Enterprise_.

It had been a long time before he’d been able to find any forgiveness for himself over Charles’s death.  Oddly enough, it had been Malcolm who’d shown him the understanding that Jon had not.

“You did all the wrong things for all the right reasons,” the Brit had said, shaking his head sadly, when they’d finally gotten around to talking about what had happened.  “I’m so sorry, Trip.  I should have been paying more attention to what was going on rather than chasing Veylo’s arse around the Armoury.”

“Don’t know what you could’ve done,” Trip had replied moodily, staring at the now almost empty beer bottle from which he’d been swigging as they talked, lounging at ease in his quarters.  “T’Pol warned me, plain enough, and I didn’t have the sense to listen.  Just went plowin’ on, on my own little crusade, thinkin’ I could fix the Universe.”

Reed had sighed.  “Wouldn’t we all like the power to do that.  But you never know, there might be some good come out of it someday.  Maybe this will make the Vissians think about their other cogenitors, about the way they’re treated.  A snowflake will start an avalanche, if it falls in the right place.”

The conversation had turned to other things, and the attack on Earth soon afterwards had given both of them more than enough to think about without remembering Charles all that often, though sometimes her gentle ghost had sat beside his elbow when he tried to immerse himself in a book.  Nevertheless, Malcolm’s words had provided a balm of sorts; it might be too late for Charles, but maybe – just maybe – her untimely death might have forced the Vissians to realize she’d been so much more than the dumb beast they’d seen her as.  That realization, once made, would surely have forced them to confront the casual cruelty with which she and her kind had been treated.  It was no consolation for his own blind, stupid irresponsibility, but it was hope salvaged from the abyss of guilt and despair.  The lieutenant didn’t offer absolution – such a thing wasn’t possible – but still, his quiet understanding had been the nearest thing to comfort Trip had been able to accept.

It was the sort of compassion he’d have gotten from Jon once; but the friendship with Jon was another of the things that seemed to be part of another lifetime.  It had cost him a pang afterwards to realize that the only ray of hope in the whole damned business had come from the man he’d once labeled the ‘Grim Reaper’ – and called him it to his face, not giving a damn how it would hurt.

Still, the sense of her presence was momentarily so strong that he wouldn’t have been altogether surprised to find her sitting on his bunk when he emerged from the shower.

_Heck, why am I thinking about her now?_ He hadn’t done so for a while; these days his griefs were more immediate.  He still mourned for his home town, for the seven million dead, for the members of his ship’s crew who wouldn’t come home, and most of all for his sister, his pretty little Lizzie who was just one of those who’d fallen victim to the Xindi attack.  Maybe if they’d done what he’d set out to do in the Expanse – blow the hell out of the Xindi home planet and give _them_ a few million dead to mourn – he might perhaps have found some peace.  As it was, peace was a state of mind that seemed to have deserted him.

They hadn’t blown hell out of the Xindi, unless you counted the weapon and a few Reptilians.  They hadn’t blown hell out of anybody much, except for those luckless Illyrians who were still limping home at a snail’s pace – assuming they hadn’t fallen victim to pirates in the meantime, given their inability to outrun pursuit.  But Lizzie was still gone, and his peace of mind had gone with her, and it didn’t seem likely to return anytime soon. 

He leaned forward and braced both hands against the wall, letting the water course over his head and shoulders.

Who was he kidding?

There was only one reason he’d left _Enterprise_.

Everything else, he could have borne.  Sure, he’d messed up with Charles, and Lizzie … well, someday the wound would heal over, or maybe he’d just get used to the fact that he’d never know how she’d died.  Even already there were days when he actually didn’t think about her, and when he realized that he was alternately ashamed and terrified and relieved: ashamed, because he’d forgotten her; terrified, because he was afraid he _would_ forget her; and relieved, because there had actually been a period when her loss wasn’t killing him – and the realization of that relief immediately made him feel sick with guilt.  How could he even _want_ to forget his baby sister, and the dreadful way she’d died?

The friendship with Jon … well, people changed and friendships changed with them, and he himself wasn’t the good ol’ boy who’d shipped out looking for adventure among the stars.  How could he put all the blame on Jon, who’d literally borne the weight of the world on his shoulders all that time?  Such an ordeal would change anyone, and he could guess that Jon, too, walked with a few ghosts these days.

Victory had come.  But it hadn’t come without cost.

Hell, why had he responded to Amanda’s overtures?

It had seemed like a great idea at the time.  He wasn’t immune to her good looks, and the chance to practice the neuropressure techniques he’d learned during the sessions with T’Pol had been a great ice-breaker.

Yeah, well, maybe he had been flirting, just a little.  Just to relieve the monotony, to try to remember what it felt like to smile and talk to an attractive woman who was clearly interested in him as something other than a damned engineer.  And when she’d kissed him … well, maybe it hadn’t been quite the surprise he’d made it out to be.

But he hadn’t expected T’Pol to react the way she had when she’d found out about it.  Hadn’t expected her to be _jealous_ – because whether she admitted it or not, that’s exactly what she was.  Hadn’t expected to find himself feeling jealous too – jealous of his own clone, who’d gotten to tell the woman he loved that he had feelings for her.  Above all, hadn’t expected that unforgettable moment when the robe slipped off those smooth shoulders and fell to the floor, and he was finally able to feast his eyes on what he’d fantasized about for so long.

With a groan, he switched off the water.  There was an ache in his groin and a worse one in his heart, and whenever he replayed the conversation in the Mess Hall the morning after that amazing night it was all he could do not to curl up in a corner and sob his heart out.

An _experiment._

He was just an _experiment._

The woman to whom he’d given his heart had torn it out of his chest and stomped on it, and nothing since had been the same or ever would be again.


	2. Chapter 2

Twenty-three thirty.

An hour and a half he’d been lying here, staring into the dark; going through all the routines he’d ever known for courting elusive slumber, and still he was wakeful.

Damn, memories were merciless.  He could remember every moment, every touch, every sigh.  Even in absence his body quivered to the touch of hers.

…’facilitating my exploration of Human sexuality’.

With a muttered curse that was close to a whimper, he turned on to his other side for what felt like the hundredth time.  An experiment.  A goddamn _experiment._

A _lab rat_.

… She’d moaned, deep in her throat.  Her skin was so hot, stained olive with arousal.  She’d tasted different, spicy, intoxicating.

... ‘my exploration of Human sexuality’.

_“NO!”_

He sat up, shaking, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.  Would the memories ever become less vivid?  Would he ever be able to forget, ever be able to exorcise the ghost of someone who’d only ever existed in his own head?

His _lover_ ….

Pain and anger made him reckless.

Something _had_ happened between them, something more than sex.  Something had changed.  She knew it.  Those coy little questions when he’d returned, asking about having trouble sleeping when he was aboard _Columbia ._ Then about daydreams – daydreams with ‘intense auditory and visual sensations’ about _her._

_Yeah, been gettin’ a few of those, honey.  Just another of those male hormone things you found out about with your ‘experiment’.  I wouldn’t worry your sweet little head about it._

So what the hell was she getting at?

He threw himself back on the bunk, trying to concentrate.  That feeling he’d had, that weird sensation of being – _somewhere else._ Somewhere _she_ was, and she hadn’t been any too pleased by his arrival, since she was apparently trying to meditate.

Well, maybe he could do it again.  On purpose, this time.  And if it worked, maybe he could have a little fun.  Rile her up a bit.  Find out what the hell was going on.

And if she didn’t like it?

Tough!

 =/\=

 

 He actually didn’t expect it to work.

So it was a surprise when he opened his eyes on the boring white space, and there she was. 

But she wasn’t looking like she had last time, neat and composed and gorgeous and downright exasperating.  She looked tired and disheveled, and if she’d been human he’d have thought she wasn’t far off the verge of tears.  So of course he forgot all about trying to rile her, and had to remind himself that rushing forward to take her in his arms was _totally out of order_ , because heck, he was just a lab rat in her little experiment, her ‘exploration of Human sexuality’.

“Everything okay here?” he asked uneasily.

She straightened up.  “Yes.  I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary.”

She was different.  _Really_ different.  Distracted.  And that wasn’t T'Pol, so he was immediately concerned and curious.  “Mind tellin’ me what’s going on?”

“It is … private.  Nothing that should concern you.”  But at that moment a spasm crossed her face that was the sort of thing you’d expect to see if someone had been stuck with a knife, and she was far too slow in wiping the grimace of pain away.

“What the heck’s going on?” he shouted, jumping off the bunk.

“Nothing,” she panted.  “Stay away.  The – the situation is – under control.”

_The hell it is!_ He tore himself back into the real world.   Whatever was happening, she wasn’t safe, and he’d be damned if he was going to sit here while god-knew-what was going on.

He’d stripped off to get into bed, but snatched up a pair of sweat pants and his boots and pulled them on even as he tumbled out of the door.  Part of his brain yelled at him that he should call up Security but he couldn’t spare the time; it was too important that he get there _now,_ and he pelted down the corridors, knocking aside anyone who couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. 

As soon as he reached her door he slammed in the override code and the instant the door had slid wide enough to admit him he darted through, expecting – well, he didn’t know _what_ he was expecting.

But whatever he had been expecting, it had definitely not been to find T’Pol pinning Malcolm Reed to the floor.  The Brit’s face was contorted and he was thrashing around in a panic, but although it was clearly an effort, she was managing to hold him down.

“You came here of your own accord, Mister Reed,” she was saying almost into his face.  “You wanted this.”

Trip came to a halt as though he’d run into a brick wall, unable to believe what he was seeing.  _‘You wanted this’?_

What the – what the _fuck?_

“You slimy, treacherous little asshole!” he yelled, lunging forward.  In that moment the Brig wasn’t good enough for Reed; nothing short of an airlock would have done. 

He should have expected it; hadn’t it been Malcolm who’d first held up the mental mirror in which he saw an attractive woman reflected?  Malcolm hadn’t seen her as a Vulcan first and a woman second, as he and Jon had done.  But after the sonofabitch had pretended friendship, had learned as much as he had done about how Trip felt – after he’d commiserated with the agonies of falling in love with the one woman on the ship who couldn’t return it – what the fuck had he come here for?  And he couldn’t even take a refusal.  T'Pol had actually had to resort to fighting him off!

_Bastard!_

The impact of his boot on Reed’s ribs was everything he’d never got the chance to deliver to the Xindi.  He had his foot back to deliver another when T'Pol lunged at him, grabbed the ankle of the leg he was standing on and yanked on it – hard.  Inevitably he overbalanced, but was no sooner on the floor than he wrenched himself around to have another go at the would-be rapist, who was now trying desperately to protect his injured side.

His fist made contact with the side of the Brit’s face with a force that was enough to knock his head sideways and slam it into the floor.  “Keep your filthy goddamn hands to yourself next time!” he roared, preparing to deliver another punch if the recipient so much as squeaked. “You’ll be off this ship so fast your damned feet won’t touch the floor, you little bastard!”

“TRIP!” T'Pol’s grip on his shoulders as she pushed him away was hard enough to hurt – a great deal.  “Stop!  Leave him alone!”

“What the hell for?” he yelled, trying to get loose.  “And what the hell’s he doin’ here anyway?  Another of your little ‘research projects’?”

Close up, her eyes were a blaze of rage.  “He is here at my invitation.  He is participating in a course of mental and emotional therapy, sanctioned by the captain.”

The icy fury of her voice cut through the red haze like a knife.  He felt the shreds of it falling away, and clutched at the remnants to protect himself from the knowledge of what he’d done, what he’d said.  “But you – I saw you fightin’ with him–”

“An outcome that was predictable, and for which I was fully prepared,” she answered coldly.  “The damage to Mister Reed is deep-seated, and treatment at this depth often precipitates a violent reaction.  I had the situation completely under control until you intervened.”

“‘Damage’?” he said almost soundlessly.  His gaze traveled to Malcolm, who was lying still on the decking, arms clasped protectively around his side, and a bruise already discoloring his cheekbone.  Far worse than that, however, was the way the gray eyes were staring fixedly at nothing, as though he were already dead.

“I have told you everything you need to know, Commander.  Now kindly leave.  I will have to escort the lieutenant to Sickbay, and then I will need to file a report to the captain.”

The last remnants of his jealous rage fell into the icy, inescapable pool of realization.

This would probably be the end of his career.  But right at that moment, that was the last thing he gave a damn about.

He had to try a couple of times before he could get the word out.  “Malcolm–”

No reply.  Not even a glance.  With the Vulcan’s gentle help, Reed got himself up to his knees and managed to stand, hunched over where his left arm was clamped around his ribcage. His face was sheet-white, and there was blood on it.

Without a word, the two of them left the cabin.


	3. Chapter 3

Fortunately, at this hour the corridors of _Enterprise_ were practically deserted.  It would have attracted extremely unwanted attention for the head of Security to be seen being half-carried by his senior officer, and T'Pol was grateful that they’d encountered no-one by the time they’d reached the turbo-lift.

Still more fortunately, this was unoccupied when it arrived.  She helped the lieutenant inside, but although he leaned hard against the wall, his eyes closed, as soon as the doors shut his hand shot out and slapped the control to halt the lift where it was.

“Accident,” he said, speaking with difficulty; he appeared to have bitten the side of his lip.  “My quarters … I slipped.”

She looked at him carefully, with concern.  He appeared to be suffering mental confusion, probably as a result of the blow to the head.  “Lieutenant.  You were _attacked._   This was not your fault.”

His eyes rolled open.  They were hollow with bitterness.  “I know.”

T'Pol contemplated that statement.  “You wish the commander to escape the consequences of his actions.”

The huff of sour laughter was undoubtedly ill-advised.  He pressed a hand gingerly to his hurt side, wincing, and muttered something about ‘never live it down’.

The five years she’d lived among Humans had enabled her to recognize irony when she heard it.  She also recognized that the tactical officer was trying to deflect her from his real motive.

It had taken time for the seed of friendship to take root in the stony soil of the Englishman’s reserved nature.  It seemed, however, that once established, its roots went deep.  There was more bitterness in the additional irony that a man whose loyalty had been called into such terrible question by the captain was now displaying his loyalty to a friend who had inflicted both physical and emotional harm on him.  The latter, perhaps, was probably the more severe of the two, and would take far longer to heal – if it ever did.

“It would be irresponsible of me to conceal the truth of what has happened,” she said sternly.  “Mister Tucker assaulted a junior officer without provocation.  At the very least it should be entered into his record.”

He looked at her, at that.  The ghost of a smile played painfully across his bloody mouth.  “Let’s not beat around the bush, Sub-commander.  I know exactly what he _thought_ he saw.  And if our roles were reversed, I assure you I wouldn’t have stopped at putting the boot in.  In the circumstances, I thought his behaviour was positively restrained.”

His next move surprised her; it was so utterly unlike anything she would have expected from the self-contained man opposite her.  With his free hand, he reached out and touched her cheek gently.  “He’s in love, T'Pol.  He did what any man worth his salt would do.  And if this went on his record, it would be an injustice.  I don’t want that.”

She swallowed.  For the thousandth time since her ill-starred experimentation with trellium-D, the thought went through her mind that her people had been wise to determine that emotions were something that should be kept under the firmest control.  “Doctor Phlox may not feel your injuries consistent with the type of ‘accident’ you describe.”

“Probably not.  But the good doctor and I have an understanding.  I dare say he’ll be open to a little bribery.”  Seeing her incomprehension, he smiled again; this time it was no more than a little wry.  “I’ll explain what happened and promise to be on my very best behaviour if he’ll keep it under his hat.  I’ll be so good he won’t recognize me.”

That the officer who regarded the Starfleet regulations as the lodestar of his conduct on board ship should be now proposing that two other officers aid and abet him in concealing a serious incident from the knowledge of the captain was sufficient proof of how far he was in earnest.  And more telling proof of the real generosity of his nature, that he was able to see past his own pain and understand the motives of the man who’d inflicted it on him.

“Don’t paint me as a saint, Sub-commander,” he said drily, doubtless reading her thoughts with little difficulty.  “I’m damned if I want to see him kicked out of Starfleet for playing Saint George to my dragon.We need him _here_.  And I suspect I’m not the only one who feels that way.  Though maybe not for the same reasons.”

“I am sure the captain would also feel the loss,” she concurred, pressing the release on the lift mechanism so that they could proceed to Sickbay.

Apparently her reply had been sufficiently dampening, for he made no comment – unless the hint of a grin could be regarded as a comment.  At any rate she could safely ignore it, so she did.

The two of them said no more until the double doors of Phlox’s domain hissed open to admit them.

The doctor was seated at his work-bench, examining some slides.  He looked up at the unexpected entrance, and his expression of inquisitive welcome slid momentarily into one of resignation as he recognized that his most regular patient was once more in need of his expertise.  Nevertheless, he pinned on his dauntless, professional smile as he rose and came forward.  “My, my, Mister Reed.  And you haven’t even been on an away mission today!”

“Spare me the jokes, Doctor.  My own fault, I assure you.  Didn’t step high enough when I got out of the shower.”  The picture of dejection, he hopped unbidden onto a bio-bed and gingerly removed his tank top.  It certainly did not require the services of a detective to ascertain the site of his injury: it was already darkening with bruising, and he flinched away, hissing with pain, when the Denobulan applied even the gentlest pressure to it.

Phlox sighed.  “I suspect you have at least one fractured rib, Lieutenant.  Into the imaging chamber with you, to see what the full extent of the damage is.”

Submissively Reed got down off the bio-bed again and extended himself on the padded trolley that the doctor brought out on its runners from the chamber.

“It’s most unlike you to be so clumsy,” Phlox added, noting the damage to his patient’s face.  His tone was conversational, but the blue eyes were very sharp.

“Can’t think what came over me.”  His face was absolutely guileless.  That in itself was enough to make the doctor suspicious.

“Possibly you had overtired yourself in the gymnasium earlier on,” said T'Pol a little severely, just in case the Denobulan was more gullible than she suspected.

“Yes, I – I suppose I very well might have done.  Sorry, Sub-commander.” 

Anything more he might have said was cut off by the trolley’s sliding into the chamber, and the door of it fell, sealing him in.  Phlox immersed himself in setting the controls, humming to himself.  Occasionally T'Pol suspected that he rather enjoyed pitting himself against Lieutenant Reed, but this was not the time to speculate on it.

Her business here in Sickbay was over; there was nothing she could do to assist, and to linger would only arouse the doctor’s curiosity as to her involvement.  Fortunately he had not asked how it had happened that she had come to be escorting the lieutenant here when the injury had supposedly occurred in his quarters – they were hardly on friendly visiting terms, particularly at this hour.  It might be rather awkward if he got around to asking why, if the patient had tripped when exiting the shower, his hair was still completely dry and he was fully clothed, but doubtless Mister Reed would be able to come up with some plausible answer to that without her assistance.

“Oh, Sub-commander – I almost forgot!” Phlox’s cheerful tones halted her just before she touched the door control.  “I received a communication from Feezal today.  She wished particularly to be remembered to Commander Tucker.  If you might happen to see him, I’d be obliged if you could pass on the message.”

“My pleasure,” she said in her driest voice.


	4. Chapter 4

As she had more than half expected, the chief engineer in question was still in her quarters.

He was seated cross-legged on her meditation cushion, staring dully at the unlighted candle-lamp on her table.  “Is he okay?” he asked, without looking up.

“He is in Sickbay.  Doctor Phlox is examining him, but his initial diagnosis is that the lieutenant has sustained at least one fractured rib.”  She paused only slightly before continuing in her most disinterested tone, “The doctor asked me to pass on greetings from his wife.  Apparently she wishes to be remembered to you.”

The slight twist of his mouth acknowledged the thrust, and she felt a momentary twinge of illogical remorse, but she had done no more than pass on the message with which she had been entrusted.

“Is the cap’n with him?”

“As far as I know, Captain Archer is still in his quarters.  Unless he is taking his canine for a walk.”

“Guess I’d better go put him in the picture, then,” he said wearily.  “That way it’ll be less of a shock when the report drops on to his desk.”

She moved forward and sat on her bunk, watching him.  He looked absolutely exhausted, and unwilling pity moved in her.  “Lieutenant Reed has requested me not to file a report on the incident.”

“I’ll save you the trouble.  It’ll probably be up to Cap’n Hernandez to carry out the disciplinary, but Cap’n Archer can put in his ten cents’ worth.  And I daresay she’ll accept a written deposition from Malcolm.”

Not for the first time, T'Pol reflected that the human trait of obstinacy was one that _Enterprise_ ’s chief engineer had inherited to a most marked degree.  “If the lieutenant would be willing to provide one,” she observed.  “It is my belief that he would refuse.”

“Then he damn well oughta do what he’s told!” Trip shouted suddenly, sitting up with a jerk.  “After the things I called him–” His voice caught in his throat.  He fell silent, and returned his gaze to the candle, blinking rather rapidly.

“Trip,” she said softly, the nickname slipping out almost by accident, “I am not at liberty to discuss his personal problems.  I can only tell you that they are bound up with what happened whilst you were aboard _Columbia_ , and that treatment from me is the condition imposed on him by the captain to allow him to remain here.  Whatever you may suspect, there is nothing between us.”

Color came and went in his face as she exposed his jealousy in such a matter-of-fact way, but she could imagine no other reason for him to have acted as he did.  And though the muscles of his jaw moved, he uttered no denials.

“He never did tell me why he was in the Brig,” he said dully, at last.  “Kept tellin’ myself I didn't have time to ask.  Bet now he thinks I didn't give a damn anyway.”

She drew a deep breath and let it out again slowly, careful to keep it absolutely soundless. “I would imagine that he ‘thinks’ you have been busy.  He is an extremely professional officer, fully aware of the condition of the ship.”

“More professional ‘n me, is that what you’re sayin’?”  His voice took on an edge.

A frank – if unkind – retort sprang to her lips, but she swallowed it.  Once again guilt surged over her.  If his 'professionalism' was in any way lacking, she could not escape at least some of the responsibility.

She’d been aware of the commander’s interest in her for some time, but refrained from giving him any encouragement until that fatal night when the combination of her mental imbalance from trellium-D abuse and the predatory interest of Corporal Cole had sufficed to tip her into an act that she could only regard in hindsight as one of lunatic folly.  She had not only encouraged his feelings by indulging in behavior that he had clearly regarded as indicating that she returned his emotional attachment to her, but then compounded the offense against him by taking refuge next morning in dismissing it as meaningless.

Well.  It had by no means been ‘meaningless’, but what it meant to her hadn't been the same as what it meant to him.  Given the unbridgeable gulf that yawned between not only their cultures and genders but their _species_ , it was virtually impossible that it should be.  On several occasions she had heard members of the crew (usually male) bemoan the fact that women were impossible to understand.  If Humans had this difficulty with members of their own species, how likely was it that they would be able to comprehend the thought patterns of those of a completely different one?

With these reflections in mind, it had seemed only wise to put an end to any expectations he might have formed, and she had done so in what seemed the kindest manner.  The flash of incredulous hurt in his eyes had made her heart sink, though she preserved an impassive front; to use the Human idiom, she was ‘being cruel to be kind’.  The pleased, boyish shyness in his initial manner had frosted over immediately as he took refuge in hoping that the episode might not become public knowledge, but it was still clear that he was bitterly disappointed and hurt.

His behavior afterwards had confirmed it.  It had hardly even been a surprise when he put in his transfer request.  If anything, it emphasized just how badly he’d been damaged, and this evening she’d had confirmation that it was still gnawing at him even now; seeing her supposedly ‘entertaining’ Lieutenant Reed in her quarters, the first thing that had sprung to his mind was that she was conducting another ‘experiment into Human sexuality’.

If anything illustrated the difference between their mindsets with merciless clarity, it was the connotations behind that phrase.  She had meant it to safely dispel any emotional significance their sexual encounter might have seemed to have; he had received it as the most damning of insults, endowing the occasion with even _more_ emotional significance. 

“I assure you, he understood the situation completely,” she said now, wondering how much it was appropriate to say about the lieutenant’s state of mind.  “As for blaming you for not mentioning it, I would imagine he was more grateful that you did not.  I doubt whether he would be willing even now to discuss what happened.”

“Didn’t seem to have much difficulty ‘discussin’ it’ with you,” he snapped.

Again she chose her words carefully.  “He had no choice.  This is an extremely difficult thing for him to deal with.  He will require sustained assistance to recover.”

This was the wrong thing to say.  She realized immediately that it made him feel even worse for what he’d said in the heat of anger, the insults he’d hurled.

“He understood what you thought you had seen,” she went on quickly, seeing his mouth twist again, this time with remorse.  “He said that he had no wish to see you punished for ‘playing Saint George to his dragon’.”

“Aw, hell…” He ran his fingers through his hair, disordering it still further.

“It was a misunderstanding.”  The quiet words were spaced out for emphasis.  “In the circumstances, both he and I agree that his injury should be recorded as the result of an accident.  There has been enough disruption to the ship lately.”

Their gazes met and held.  They both knew what was responsible for a great deal of that ‘disruption’ – the loss of the ship’s Chief Engineer, who’d been so integral a part of the ship that he’d occasionally seemed like one of the components of the warp drive; its heart, perhaps, if it had possessed such a thing.

“Will Phlox buy that?”  His tone doubted it.

“Probably not.  But patient confidentiality is paramount.  If the patient does not want his condition discussed with the captain, then that is the end of the matter as far as a doctor is concerned.  Lieutenant Reed will say nothing, and I will say nothing if he does not.  The ball, as you Humans say, is in your court, Commander.”

He returned his gaze to the lamp.  “So I just get off scot-free.”

 _No, because you will punish yourself for it._ But she couldn't say that, because it was far too intimate an observation, so T'Pol contented herself with saying merely, “It would not serve justice to punish a person for making a mistake.”

He sighed deeply, and rose to his feet.  The lack of grace in his movements told how worn out he was, and his face was as haggard as it had been back in the bad days of the Expanse.  She felt a momentary impulse to touch it in an attempt at comfort, and controlled herself sternly; she’d done enough damage already by touching what she shouldn't.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to sleep on it.”  _If I can get any sleep, that is,_ he might as well have said.  At a guess, whatever he might eventually achieve would be far from refreshing.

“Then I would suggest that you inform the lieutenant of your decision before the shift starts tomorrow.  He and I will both have to know what the situation will be if we are to present a consistent story to the captain.”

“I get the picture, T'Pol.”  He walked – ‘shambled’ would almost have been an appropriate term – to the door, where he checked momentarily and glanced back.  “I know you an’ Malcolm are just tryin’ to protect me, and I’m tryin’ to be grateful to the both of you.  But right this moment I’m just so mixed up I don’t know what I feel.  So I’m sorry if I’m comin’ across as an ungrateful ass. 

“With a little luck the repairs shouldn't take a whole lot longer.  Then I can get myself back to _Columbia_ and out of your hair.  And I’ll do my damnedest not to show up in your daydreams again.”

Without another word he left the cabin.

She sat looking at the door for a long moment before she rose in her turn.  After the events of the evening she would need to shower again, and then spend at least a short time in meditation before she even attempted to sleep.

But when, much later, she finally lay down in her bunk, the anticipated sleep would not come.  Over and over her mind replayed to her the finality of that closing door.  Soon, if the commander’s prediction was correct, that would be the door of the airlock shutting off the last view of him stepping into whatever transport was arranged to return him to _Columbia._

He would not return again.  In her experience, fate seldom offered a second chance; never, a third.

This time, he would be gone for good.


	5. Chapter 5

Possibly only the considerations of _conduct befitting an officer_ enabled Malcolm to keep his lips closed when he heard the sound of the Sickbay door hissing open and the doctor greeting Commander Tucker. 

Phlox had finally allowed him to settle down for the night, although not without attaching that damned eel to his face to reduce the bruising.  His least favourite part of the ship had finally subsided into quiet, in which he could lie still and think – an activity which was likely to be as painful as it was necessary.  But it seemed that even this was not to be granted to him. 

He was tired, he was sore and he wanted more than anything to be alone.   If he could only get some peace and quiet he might be able to start patching himself together, because right at this moment it felt as though the inside of his head had been taken out of it, put into a bag and shaken till the pieces jangled.

He’d accepted that the sessions with T’Pol to help alleviate, if not remove, his Section conditioning would be painful.  Allowing anyone access to him that intimately was atrociously difficult even now, and he’d struggled for what felt like hours to lower mental barriers that flew up at the first hint of intrusion.  Finally he’d panicked and lost control; they’d both known it could happen, but that didn’t help much with the sense of shame that he hadn’t been able to prevent it.  Fortunately she’d had enough warning to be able to grab him and wrestle him to the floor; she’d been trying to steer him back to reason and acceptance when they were rudely interrupted.  All in all, it hadn’t been the best night of his life so far – and there would have to be others, if he wanted to stay on _Enterprise_.

And as if mental trauma and physical assault weren’t enough, the inside of his heart hadn’t done too well either, over the last couple of hours.  He meant what he’d said: he wanted the ship’s crew to remain intact, because ever since the incident with the Romulan drone ship he’d been convinced that it was an opening move in a chess game where the opponents’ cunning was only exceeded by their ruthlessness.  But that was _Enterprise_ ’s Tactical Officer speaking, and even though Malcolm Reed could concede that the chap was talking sense, he didn’t have to burst into frenzied applause.

He listened to Phlox’s almost soundless footsteps retreating across Sickbay.  Trip’s somewhat louder ones came a few paces through the door, and stopped.

His heart sank.  Conversely, his temper rose.  Hell, wasn’t Phlox supposed to _protect_ the people under his care?

He kept his eyes shut, out of sheer perversity.  He could feel the commander’s gaze on him, taking in the presence of the osmotic eel and the slight swell of bandages beneath the sheet where his side had been strapped up.

“Malcolm,” said Trip quietly.

He kept his breathing slow and quiet.  Maybe the other man would believe he was asleep, or maybe he’d just take the hint and bugger off.

Apparently taking hints wasn’t among Trip’s more well-developed skills.  After a few moments the footsteps started again, and came to the edge of the bio-bed.

There was a pause.

“Malcolm, quit tryin’ to pretend you’re asleep, ‘cause I know you’re not.”

“The case might be different if I were allowed a little peace and quiet,” he spat.

Trip folded his arms.  Malcolm didn’t know how he knew this, but he did.  He also knew the damned Yank had got this stubborn expression on his face that meant he wasn’t going to be shifted till he’d said what he’d come to say.  So he might as well get it off his chest, and then maybe he’d shove off and enrol himself on a correspondence course in Interspecies Dalliance – hopefully one that started with the words ‘This Does Not Apply To Vulcans’.

“Aren’t you supposed to be still catching your beauty sleep, Commander?” he asked sarcastically.  “Or did you just feel like coming down for a stroll before you catch an early breakfast?”

“I don’t blame you for bein’ mad at me.”

Even a partial view of the underside of his revolting passenger couldn’t restrain Malcolm from rolling his eyes open long enough to deliver a scorching glare.  “I think, on the whole, I’d rather not hear anything you have to say right now.  So if you’d kindly take yourself elsewhere, I’d be grateful.”

“No, I won’t.  I’ll be damned if I wait till you’ve had time to climb back inside those defenses of yours and wall yourself up again over a goddamn mistake.”

“A _mistake!_ ”  He almost jeered the word.  There’d been a mistake, all right.  But it had been his.  What had ever prompted him to believe that he’d found a family here – had found a man he’d felt to be the brother he’d never had?

 _I have no friends.  Friends are people who betray you._ If only he’d had the sense to stick by that bitter creed, he wouldn’t be in this pickle.

 _‘That’s what you get for turning soft, Reed,’_ Harris’s voice taunted him in his head.  ‘ _You should have stayed where you belonged.’_

“Yes.  A _mistake._ ”  Trip grabbed him by the arm, hard enough to hurt.  “Goddamn it, Malcolm–!”

“So what the hell is there to talk about, Commander?”  Losing his temper completely, he sat up – or tried to, until a sudden sickening surge in the pain under the bandages forced him to stop abruptly with a gasp, beads of sweat springing out on his forehead.  Sickbay started to spin, and he closed his eyes again to shut out the sight, even as a hard grip now on both arms propelled him gently back down again and held him flat until the worst of the rigidity went out of his body.

“‘What’s there to talk about’?” said Trip’s voice softly from above him.  “I guess you know darn well what needs talkin’ about.  Things I should never have thought, let alone said.  Things you didn’t deserve.  Things I wish I’d cut my tongue out before I said ‘em.”

Treacherously, his eyes stung.  He kept them tightly shut.  _Friends are people who betray you._ And truer words than that had never been bloody spoken.

“I know what you’re doin’,” Trip went on quietly.  “You never have let on too much about yourself.  Sometimes I’ve thought you’re like a little owl, lookin’ and listenin’ all the time, but never showin’ yourself.

“One time back home, when I was, oh, ten or eleven it must have been, Lizzie found a baby owl that must’ve fallen out of a nest in the tree down the road.  As long as it thought nobody was lookin’, it just sat there with all its feathers fluffed out – but as soon as you got too close it just flopped onto its back and _then_ you saw the claws.”

During the course of Malcolm’s life he’d been compared to quite a few things, not many of which had been complimentary.  His indignation at being compared to a stranded baby owl was only partially tempered by a secret, unwilling gratification at being recognized as armed and dangerous even in his current plight.

“So I know you’re just like that little owl right now.  You’ve been knocked out of your nest and you’re all riled up and ready to sink your claws into me.  An’ I don’t blame you for that.  If you were up for it I’d let you march me down to the gym right now and beat the crap out of me.”

“That may still happen,” he said through his teeth.

“Maybe.  But not right now, I guess.  Right now you don’t have any choice but to listen to me sayin’ I was totally out of order.  That I should never have shot my mouth off the way I did.  That it was just … hell, maybe it was just the fear talkin’, I don’t know.  ‘Cause I’m in over my head, Malcolm.  I don’t know how to cope with where I am.  I don’t know what to do for the best, whether to stay here or go back to _Columbia_ and try to work out how to live without her.

“That doesn’t make it right that I did what I did.  But I’m askin’ you to forgive me.  Hell, if I have to I’ll _beg_ ya.  ‘Cause I don’t have Jon any more, and I don’t have Lizzie, and I don’t have … I don’t have _her_ , and I … I can’t stand to lose my best friend too.”

They’d never used that particular phrase.  It wasn’t something you put into words, no matter how many hours you spent building phase cannons together or getting locked in wine cellars together or freezing to death in shuttlepods together or investigating strange craft together or foiling Klingons together or watching movies together; it was something that just _happened_ , and you didn’t talk about it or even really think about it, especially if no-one, _ever_ , had been your best friend before.

It was like being the recipient of some kind of magic spell.  The hard, bitter knot of resistance simply … melted.

For some mysterious reason, Malcolm found it suddenly necessary to swallow.  Hard.

“I … bloody hell, Trip,” he croaked, when he was finally able to speak.  “You don’t get rid of me that easily.  Now just bugger off and let me get some sleep.”

He opened his eyes.  Above him, Trip remained still for a long moment more, while their gazes held and a lot was communicated that couldn’t be said – and, perhaps, didn’t need to be said.  Because friendship was too precious to be thrown away over a few stupid words said by a man who was carrying a greater burden than his shoulders could bear.

“Will do, Loo-tenant.  And maybe if Chef does pineapple cobbler tonight I’ll remember you.”  The grin was tentative at first, but it broadened at his reply.

“If Chef does pineapple cobbler and you don’t, you’ll live to regret it.”

“Now, gentlemen, I realize that you think that because Sickbay is open at all hours this is the place and time for conversation, but unlike Denobulans, Humans _do_ need sleep every twenty-four hours.  And unless both of you co-operate voluntarily, I shall take the appropriate steps to ensure you _do._ ”  Phlox had apparently been busy with his microscope, but he looked up and pointed towards the door.  “Commander, if you please!”

“Sure thing, Doc!”  Trip raised his hands placatingly and walked quickly towards the door.  Just before he went through it, however, he paused and looked back.  “I’ll catch you later, Malcolm.  And – maybe we’ll get to talk a few things over.”

“You know where I’ll be,” Malcolm replied grouchily, waving a hand at his surroundings; but he grinned wryly and nodded, and saw the answering grin in return before Tucker nodded back and left.

The doctor made one or two more notations on the final slide, gave a grunt of satisfaction, and switched off the microscope before rising and walking over to his most reluctant patient.  “And now, Mister Reed, will you finally consent to sleep or do I have to sedate you?”

Unaccountably, Malcolm now felt weariness wash over him.  He yawned, unable to stop himself.  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Doctor.”  He hesitated, and then shot a look that was almost shy at the Denobulan.  “I … I know I don’t show my gratitude as often as I should, but … thank you.”

Phlox’s bushy eyebrows rose.  “My, lieutenant, you have me seriously concerned.  I’m beginning to wonder if I made a mistake with the medication.”

“It’s always possible.  But not very likely.”

“I’m gratified by your confidence in my abilities.  Now, _good night,_ Mr Reed.”  He stepped back, and drew the privacy curtain with unmistakable firmness, shutting out the world.  Moments later the lights dimmed, and his footsteps retreated.

Malcolm gingerly adjusted his position to find the best comfort he could.  Suddenly, sleep looked a most attractive – not to say irresistible – proposition.  And he had a new responsibility; one that induced a momentary solemnity as he drowsily contemplated it. 

For the first time in his life, he was _someone’s best friend._

He shook his head slightly, incredulous, and then drifted off to sleep, smiling.

 

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> All reviews are very deeply appreciated!


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